


Handle With Care

by andloawhatsit



Series: Handle With Care [1]
Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Coming Out, Episode s0304, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-21 11:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andloawhatsit/pseuds/andloawhatsit
Summary: Gavin realizes he has feelings for Nico Bentley. And then it just sort of snowballs.





	Handle With Care

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags, particularly if you're not familiar with the early seasons of Midsomer Murders.

**Running from the lads**

Gavin Troy went alone to his little flat, takeaway in one hand and the latest issue of _The Hawk_ in the other. He and Barnaby were in the middle of the MacKillop case, but as Barnaby had retreated to his sanctuary for supper, taking Nico Bentley with him, so Gavin had to his. Once there, though, he grappled with his door in futility for nearly a full minute before realizing he’d been using his office keys, then froze with the realization that it had been thoughts of Bentley that had distracted him: replaying conversations they’d had since Cully’s actor boyfriend had begun to shadow him, the disorderly swoop of his hair, the bridge of his nose. His little jokes, and how eager he was to impress…

These were disturbing thoughts and Gavin didn’t like them. 

Once inside, he dropped his keys and jacket, then sat at the table and tried to read the new issue over supper. He didn’t think _that_ way, because he wasn’t like _that_ , and he could perhaps allow that there wasn’t anything wrong with _that_ , technically, but it wasn’t him.

_Liar_ , said one vibrant, scrupulously detailed memory of Bentley trailing behind them, scribbling furiously in a notebook, chewing on his lip, brow furrowed in concentration. 

Gavin pushed his plate away, appetite lost though the curry wasn’t half bad. Perhaps, he thought with a gripe of real fear in his belly, he hadn’t been nursing a crush on Cully Barnaby all this time; perhaps because he’d let others believe it for so long—it didn’t do any harm, kept matchmakers off his back, and in any case, Barnaby himself wasn’t fussed—he had come to believe it himself.

Perhaps, instead of all that, he fancied Bentley. 

Just the thought was too much. 

Gavin stood up again, put the kettle on, found the tea-tin empty, then rummaged the cupboard for a spare teabag, moving mechanically, far too nervous to confront the thought forming in his mind. _Maybe he fancied Bentley._ He sat down again. No, he couldn’t bear to eat. He stood, scraped his plate, and fretted. Bentley _was_ fit, but he couldn’t help noticing that. He’d put it down to his being an actor, and had even been a bit jealous, but that was all. Well, that and _Amadeus_. He’d gone to the show to support Mrs. Barnaby’s venture into community theatre, and he’d been horrified, of course, when that horrible old man had slit his own throat on stage, but before that… He’d been completely taken up with Bentley in the starring role, forgetting Midsomer and lost in a theatrical dream of Vienna. In his own straightforward way, he had thought at the time that this theatre lark had simply turned out better than expected, even though Cully had said contemptuously, “Oh, Gavin, this isn’t _theatre._ ” But that wasn’t it, not at all.

 

The kettle’s shriek pierced his brooding, and he brewed a strong cup, then drank it almost scalding, standing over the sink and utterly unable to focus. He didn’t feel this way. He didn’t, he didn’t.He couldn’t. It wasn’t _him_. He was a police officer and police officers weren’t… He _couldn’t_. 

The other lads at the Causton nick had been sympathetic when Barnaby had tasked Gavin with showing Bentley the ropes. What would they say if they knew what he was thinking? 

“I’d not have some poof actor following me around,” DS Anderson had said with a mock shudder, clustered with the others around Gavin’s desk. “Buy you a pint when it’s all over.”

“He’s not a poof, idiot,” DS Warren had added, cutting in with a tray of coffees from the canteen. “He’s shacked up with Barnaby’s daughter, hasn’t he.”

Anderson had blanched, looking round to make sure Barnaby wasn’t nearby, then at Gavin, as though Gavin would have grassed on him. For his own part, Gavin was speechless; he’d wanted to defend Bentley more substantially than simply proving that he wasn’t gay, because Bentley—who had turned out to be funny, clever, and rather helpful on the MacKillop case—would have been worth spending time with even if he was gay, though he wasn’t, but in this psychological hedge-maze Gavin’s mental processes had broken down. More than once, Barnaby had chastised him for making cracks more severe than Anderson’s, yet there he was, prickling with offence on behalf of another man. _About as politically correct as a Nuremberg rally_ , Barnaby had called him, ages before, and he’d been a bit embarrassed, sure, but he hadn’t stopped.Surely if he told Anderson to knock it off, the lads wouldn’t think _he_ was gay? He realized Anderson was staring at him. “What?”

“Well?” Anderson was obviously repeating himself. “How was the first day?”

Gavin patted his suit pockets. “Damn, you know, I’ve left my mobile in the car,” he said, lying through his teeth. He was up from his chair and out the door in a flash. 

***

**Taking notes**

After two weeks shadowing Barnaby and Sergeant Troy up one side of Midsomer and down the other, Nico Bentley was hesitantly willing to give himself a bit of credit. He’d always been a hard worker, always tried to go the extra mile in his work, studying hard and training harder, and the desire to prove himself to Cully’s father had only been fuel to the fire. Two weeks in, he thought it might be paying off. With his new television job at the forefront of his thoughts, most of his time was spent watching Barnaby and Troy work: the way they held themselves, what they did with their hands, how each stood when the other was speaking, their expressions and the movement of their eyes, the subtle variations in their tone when they aimed for gentle, dogged, antagonistic, regretful. At first, he’d wondered if Troy wasn’t a bit of a dim bulb, with that schoolboy humour and the goofy, goodnatured grin, but then Gavin saw him in action: playing a bit stupid, a bit confused, nudging witnesses to give away more than they’d planned in their attempts to make the dull sergeant understand. Nico had realized then that in some ways their jobs weren’t so far apart after all: always playing a different part to another new audience. The first day had been rough— running late, making inane observations out of nervousness—but since then he’d felt like things were on the up. From the relative safety of Joyce Barnaby's garden, sitting with the dog on his lap, he thought he could look favourably on his work so far.  


 

“Most of the time, they want to tell you,” Troy had said, after a second interview with Anne Quarritch. “We haven’t got there yet with her, but we will. It’s like…” He paused to think, eyes narrowed, which Nico found rather endearing, given his first impression of the sergeant as a blunt, brash, overgrown boy. “You know when you’re a kid and you’re upset; your mum asks and you say you’re fine, but what you really want is for her to ask you again? It’s like that. People don’t _like_ keeping secrets. So when you’re interviewing someone, that’s your whole attitude, right? That you’re helping them, by letting them talk to you.”

Nico scribbled Troy’s words in a rough short-hand. “But wouldn’t a murderer have a vested interest in keeping a secret?”

“Deep down, everybody wants to get caught,” said Troy. “And even if that’s not true, it’s what I believe, to get the job done.” The machismo of his statement was tempered by the light blush in his cheeks, the slight bashfulness. He hadn’t been showing off, only trying to express something he could not quite put into words. 

Nico considered this, reflecting on Troy’s patient, cheerful insistence with the witnesses they’d interviewed so far. _I’ll have a large straight answer._ He’d have to give more thought to incorporating that—what was it?—that aura into his new role. 

 

He'd been cautious of the sergeant at first, after Barnaby  warned him that Troy was rough around the edges. “He’s a good lad,” he’d said over dinner, Nico’s first night, “but if he gives you any trouble I want to hear about it, understand?”

“Poor old Gavin,” said Cully, smiling over her glass of wine. She made eye contact with Nico, who understood in an instant that her sympathy was not entirely authentic. “He must find the new millennium so difficult. Not surprising, given Causton Comprehensive last updated its textbooks before the end of rationing.”

“Sharp tongue, Cully,” said Joyce, frowning. “You’ll recall that you, my dear, are also a child of the comprehensive.”

“Oh, Mum, you know what I mean.”

Nico broke in with a question. “Were you in school together, Cully?” She hadn’t mentioned it before, but she didn’t often talk about her father’s work. 

“Yes, but I didn’t know him then,” said Cully. “He’s younger than I am; closer to you, actually, which seemed to matter more in those days. I wouldn’t have been caught dead hanging around with the kids.” She laughed, self-deprecating, and the conversation trailed off when Nico rose to help Joyce clear the table. 

 

In the days that followed, though, Troy had seemed to be on his best behaviour: helpful and kind, patiently explaining his responsibilities and answering Nico’s questions on technique and process. Cully had implied that Troy was provincial, but just as Nico had found him to be smarter than he looked, so he also discovered in the sergeant a vein of good humour and curiosity. He could almost feel a budding friendship. 

Which was all in his head, he had reminded himself savagely, furious with his own distraction when he ought to have been following Barnaby’s interview with Sandra MacKillop’s doctor. _This is not a playdate, Bentley. This is a murder investigation._

“There’s something that woman’s not telling us,” said Barnaby, more to himself than to Nico, thinking aloud as they walked back to where Gavin had parked the car. 

“The sergeant says all criminals want to confess—that is, deep down, they don’t like keeping secrets,” said Nico. “What do you think, sir?”

“I think the good sergeant’s spot on,” said Barnaby. “People can keep secrets—they do it all the time—but without an honourable reason, one that the body can accept… Well, the pressure’s just too much.” They drew up to the car, and Barnaby rapped on the window, near startling Troy out of his skin. The sergeant shoved the newspaper he’d been reading—Nico couldn’t make out the title—out of sight and started the car.

 

_Yes_ , Nico told himself. _Everything is fine_. He surveyed the garden, thinking about murder, ghosts, insanity, smoked mackerel… Sergeant Gavin Troy. His patience, his professionalism, that sweet little smile, the pleasure he seemed to take in sharing his work with a struggling actor. 

Cully joined him on the bench; passed him a cup of tea. “You all right?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, though in reality, he suspected he wasn’t. The pride he’d felt in the morning was still there—he was doing good work, he was sure of it—but the day had coloured it with doubt. Lives had been lost; a woman was being driven mad, apparently by ghosts. And why should he care so much what Troy thought, anyway?

***

**Running from Bentley**

The next week, Gavin and Bentley were shin-deep in rubbish, rooting through a skip near Charles MacKillop’s house (the third that afternoon, and both men in ill-fitting police-issue wellies), when Bentley pulled the slide projector from a tangle of plastic bags and food scraps like the sword from the stone. 

“Oh, you beauty,” said Gavin, voice ringing with happiness, and because he was so delighted, because they were alone, because they had both paused to grin at their own good fortune and at the bizarre twist of fate that had them smiling to set hands on the blunt object one man had used to smash another’s head in, and because Gavin was staring at Bentley and Bentley was staring at him, Gavin lost the plot entirely and leaned forward to kiss Cully’s live-in boyfriend square on the mouth. He was making it up as he went; he had never kissed or been kissed before. 

Bentley, to his credit, did not drop the slide projector, but held it between them awkwardly, even while he moved his mouth against Gavin’s so wonderfully that Gavin forgot he was sweating and covered in trash. _Kissing a man, where anyone and their dog could see you_ , he thought. _And not just any man, but Cully’s._ He pulled back with a start, feeling himself blanch with shame and fear, terrified simultaneously that he would hit Bentley, or that Bentley would hit him, because that was what happened, wasn't it? It was the end, absolutely the end, of everything, because no one would ever kiss him like that again. 

Bentley flinched, and Gavin flushed, appalled with himself. 

“Oh, Gavin,” said Bentley.

He looked so unhappy, and it was Gavin’s doing. “We’ve got to get this back to Barnaby,” he said, not meeting Bentley’s eye, and he clambered out of the skip and stumbled toward the car. It was not until some time later that he realized Bentley had, for the first time, called him something other than “sergeant.”

***

**Taking a train**

The day after the skip, Nico chose the better part of valour and begged off joining Barnaby, claiming he had to go into the city for work. He'd seen what Troy—what _Gavin_ , surely he could say Gavin now—had been about to do as clearly as if the man had held a neon sign, but in that moment he’d forgotten to be Cully’s boyfriend. He’d forgotten about Cully altogether until Troy’s mouth was on his and he remembered with a start. 

“Aren’t you doing the first few weeks of filming over in Midsomer Mallow?” Cully was pulling on her trainers; she and Joyce were headed to the meeting of some fête-planning committee or other. 

“Yeah, but Alice—that’s my agent, Mrs. Barnaby—doesn’t have her office in Midsomer Mallow, does she?”

“Please yourself, my boy,” said Barnaby, on his way out the door himself. “But we’ll take you tomorrow, if you can manage it. You can help Troy with the paperwork.” Chuckling to himself, he nudged his wife and daughter out the door, then closed it behind him, and Nico was left alone.

After the incident, the kiss, they had gone back to the office in silence, letting the junior constable driving the car fill the ride with mild chatter. Gavin had given Nico all the credit, telling Barnaby exactly what he had found and where, and then made himself scarce, and in the hours since, Nico had travelled from confusion to nervous excitement to irritation to anger. Even if Gavin was embarrassed, what good did sticking one’s head in the sand do? Never talking about it again was fine by him, but pretending it had never happened? That wasn’t his style. And where did Gavin get off, cadging a snog off someone he knew to be taken? _Thought to be taken_ , said a nagging reminder in his head. 

Since his panic-induced alibi had the Barnabys believing him in London for the day, Nico committed to the lie, grabbed his bag, and headed for the station. He could study his scripts on the train, at least, and after all, he really had promised Alice he’d sign a waiting stack papers the next time he was in town. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. 

He was an _idiot_. His frustrated groan startled the older woman ahead of him in the ticket queue, and she gave him a scathing look the way only Midsomer elders could. He tried to nod a silent apology while mentally kicking himself. Bad enough to find himself the object of desire for a man so deep in the closet he was smothered in mothballs—and a homophobic copper to boot—but no, Nico had to go and fall himself. Had to trust, like a fool; had to see possibility where there was none; had to go and let mothball man kiss him, and not only that, but kiss him back and like it too. He was such an _idiot_. That time he stamped his foot. The Midsomer elder tucked her ticket into her handbag and shook her head, delivering disappointment and dismissal with impressive economy of motion. Nico bought his ticket, boarded, and fell into the first empty seat he could find. 

What if he told Gavin the truth? 

Bad idea. 

But what if he did? He forced himself to play it out: at one extreme, bitter recrimination and possible danger, physical danger; at the other, the best sex of his life and exchanging rings by Christmas; and most likely, a flustered, unhappy denial of interest and a plea for silence. _If he tries to buy me off, I’ll_ … But Nico couldn’t think of what he’d do if Gavin tried to bribe him, because in his heart he didn’t believe the man capable. 

 

He read his scripts, signed his papers, browsed the drama section at Foyles for a couple of hours, then boarded the train home again, acting out his own complex deception, and all the while Gavin’s face lingered at the edges of his memory. Pulling back from their kiss he had look absolutely terrified—ghost pale, eyes wide and gaze flicking about, hands curling into fists—but Nico hadn’t been afraid of him. Gavin had been deeply shaken, but ready to fend off an attack, not issue one. Nico had wanted to say, _It’s okay, Gavin, you can feel a bit of happiness_ , but found himself absurdly mute. And then the moment had gone.

***

**Running from himself**

With slide projector in lock-up and the case concluded, Barnaby was meeting Joyce at some new restaurant in Causton, and on his way out the door at half-five, he asked Gavin to drive Bentley home. It had been two nerve-wracking days and two restless nights since the skip. Gavin hadn’t been alone with Bentley since, and Barnaby’s innocent request dropped him right back in the fire. 

And after he’d gone, and Gavin and Bentley were left alone—more or less, in the big room with its swath of officers’ desks, a few of the others still filing their reports or gathering their things—Bentley said, “I can get a taxi. Or walk, even. It’s not so far.”

But Gavin’s inner sense of propriety, instilled in him from childhood by his nan, rebelled at this, even in the face of his current crisis of self. “No, no, it won’t take ten minutes. Just let me get the keys.” Bentley followed him silently to the car, and once there, he spoke before Bentley could. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

_Oh, god,_ thought Gavin. _Is he going to make me say it?_ He couldn’t. “For before. In the, er, skip. I shouldn’t have done that to you. And Cully.” He wanted desperately to ensure Bentley’s silence: it was unbearable to imagine ribald office chatter of his trying it on with his shadow, his _male_ shadow, and it was full-on incomprehensible — indeed, his mind turned to static at the thought — that his come-on might become pillow-talk between Bentley and Cully. Yet between his own pride and his respect for Bentley, he couldn’t bring himself to beg for silence, instead existing at a point of pure, continuous agony, like a fish on a hook. Perhaps Barnaby would find out. _Oh, god._

“I’m not angry with you,” said Bentley. “I was worried I freaked you out.”

“Did that to myself,” said Gavin, first rueful, then surprised by his own honesty. He turned down Barnaby’s street, pulled up, parked the car. 

“I don’t know if it’ll make you feel any better,” said Bentley, quietly, “but…” His voice grew even softer, almost reluctant. Operating on copper autopilot, Gavin didn’t move, only watching the other man, who faced straight ahead, from the corner of his eye. “I’m not dating Cully.”

Gavin blinked, confused and startled into looking at Bentley directly. 

“We’re pretending,” said Bentley. “So I look… You saw right through me, actually. Pretending makes it easier to get the kind of roles I want, or easier to try, anyway. It’s not a secret, with my friends, but don’t spread it around, hey?” 

“I won’t. I promise.” Gavin wondered if that meant they were friends. “Does Barnaby know?”

He laughed and Gavin’s heart melted. “We tried to give him the story, but he figured it out pretty quickly.” He gave Gavin a rueful look. “Turns out he’s rather a good detective. Still, wouldn’t he be surprised: you’re a dark horse, sergeant. I’ll not tell him about this, don’t worry, but when he agreed to let me shadow, he said I shouldn’t tell you in case…” He stopped suddenly, blushing.

Gavin himself did the math in an instant and said quietly, “in case I made trouble for you.” _You are as politically correct as a Nuremberg rally._

Bentley winced. “Ye-eah… Gavin, I —”

Gavin cut him off, all his terrible repertoire ringing in his ears. _I suppose they could have been arse bandits. Poofter. A right cream puff._ Near begging Barnaby to get out of interviewing those blokes at Blackbird Bookshop. Barnaby telling him off, after they’d interviewed that old schoolteacher at the Lawnside Nursing Home… _It was a crime when he was young to be gay. That's why he was ill at ease. Bad memories. People like you._ “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he said, the words thick in his mouth. He looked away, down at the steering wheel. “It’s not… How a copper should make a person feel. Or how I… Want to make you feel.” His face was burning. What must Bentley think of him? He wanted to tell Bentley how incredible he'd found his performance in _Amadeus_ , but the time wasn't right. Wouldn't ever be right, probably.  


“Thank you,” said Bentley. “For saying that.”

“Well, good night, then?”

“Good night.”

“Ben—er, Nico?”

“Yeah?”

“I, er, don’t know why I did it, but…” That wasn’t true. He knew why, but every instinct screamed at him to run and he struggled for words. He’d never been eloquent, never smooth or seductive; he didn’t understand what he was feeling, didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to be there, didn’t want Bentley— Nico—to go. “It wasn’t a trick.”

“I know.” Then he was gone, out of the car and jogging up the drive before Gavin could jog his brain into gear. He sat for a minute or two, idling, bereft and unable to think of a way to fix it. Unable to think of what he wanted beyond some fantastical chain of circumstance that would let him kiss Nico again. He knocked his forehead against the steering wheel.

***

**Taking a breather**

Standing in the Barnabys’ front hall, Nico forced himself to count to 100. _If he’s still out there when I’m done, I’ll go back and I’ll talk to him, I’ll tell him_. Heart thudding, hands shaking with anticipation, he finished counting and—of course—opened the front door to an empty street. Gavin was long gone. 

He closed the door. The house was dark, Cully still out with the mobile library and the Barnabys at dinner. At least the dog was happy to see him. He scratched her ears, then fetched out her leash. A walk would do him a world of good, and he could still manage the washing up before the family got home. 

And he wouldn't think about Gavin at all.

***

**Running from Cully**

Some weeks later, Cully turned up at the Causton nick a few minutes before lunch. Barnaby was out for the day, begrudgingly attending some sort of criminology conference in the city, and Gavin was up to his eyeballs in paperwork—and glad for it, too. It took his mind off things. Or at least it had, until he’d come across Nico’s written statement on the MacKillop case.

“Gavin!”

He looked up. Cully, standing over him with a visitor’s badge in her hand, gave him a little wave. It seemed that had not been her first try to get his attention. 

“Heya, Cully. Sorry, but your dad’s not in today.”

“Oh, I know that. I wondered if I could take you to lunch?”

Gavin had no earthly notion what she could want, but he was confident that whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. He shrugged. “I’m buried today. I just don’t have time.” It was not a lie; he gestured to the small forest populating his desk.

“Can’t I just walk you to the canteen, then? Please, Gavin. Ten minutes.”

“You know, wasting police time is an offence.” But she had already caught him, and he was pushing back his chair as he spoke. 

She dropped her voice as they walked down the hall. “It’s only that I’m a bit worried about Nico, and I wanted to ask you…”

Gavin tripped over the first step that led downstairs. 

“Are you alright?”

He nodded, shifting to his professional stance to keep from losing his cool.

“Anyway, Nico hasn’t been himself since he worked with you and Dad on that case. He’s been out of sorts, and seems… unhappy. And I wondered… Well, I know I’m going behind his back, but I’m worried about him. I wondered if the murders affected him more than he’s saying. Did you notice anything?”

Since they were in the canteen anyway, Gavin picked up a cup of coffee and a bacon butty to give himself time to think. On the one hand, Cully wasn’t on to him; on the other, she was worried about Nico. Cully had never seemed prone to worry, more often annoyed by the way her father’s work disrupted her family’s plans, so if she was worried about Nico, she meant it. “He seemed alright at the time,” he said. “He did a good job, too — and we solved it, so there’s no loose ends.” He didn’t add that they sometimes came back to haunt you, those cases. All murder was, fundamentally, the theft of human dignity—Barnaby had said that once— but some deaths… Gerald Hadleigh’s, for instance, had lingered in Gavin’s mind. Hadleigh had died alone, brutally; been stripped naked; abandoned; all because he’d loved a man once and that mad bat Lyddiard couldn’t stand it.

He saw it, then, so clearly that he gasped aloud and crushed his sandwich in his hand. Somewhere along the line, without conscious consideration, he had decided that his own identity was not worth disturbing, not when balanced against the death and derision he regularly saw on the job and that he himself had perpetuated. He would rather be lonely than so terribly exposed. Except his, his… his _feelings_ for Nico had popped open that Pandora’s box, hadn’t they? 

Oblivious, Cully had bought herself a cup of tea and was doctoring it at the nearest table. 

Gavin joined her, did the same to his coffee, and tried not to let her see his mangled sandwich. Drawing on every ounce of policeman’s reserve he possessed, he put aside his own feelings. “It’s not pleasant, what we see here. If it’s bothering him, that’s good.”

Cully looked up, eyes widened with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“People that aren’t bothered by murder are the ones that go to jail for it.” Gavin shrugged. “You can tell him that from me.”

“He doesn’t want to hear from me. Thinks I’m mothering him. Would you talk to him?”

“What me? No, he doesn’t want to hear from me either, I’m sure.” A bit of coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup. “Does he?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t say no if you invited him round for a pint. Maybe he’d talk to you about it. You know, I wasn’t sure you two would get on — you not being too interested in theatre and what all — but he only had good things to say about you. Would you mind, Gavin? Say yes, won’t you?”

Take Nico round the pub? He couldn’t. It would be a disaster. Surely everyone would see how Gavin would look at him, because of course he’d have to look at him, and then everyone would know. But maybe Nico wouldn’t even be interested. Maybe whatever black dog was following him around, it had nothing to do the MacKillop case or with Gavin at all, and if Gavin called him, he’d think DS Troy was trying it on again and have to think of a way to beg off. 

But he couldn’t say no to Cully. If she didn’t know, she’d think he was being cruel; if she did, if Nico had told her, she’d think he was refusing to help because he’d learned that Nico was gay, and he couldn’t very well tell her, no, it was because _he_ was gay, now could he? He realized with a start that he had, for the first time in conscious memory, referred to himself as gay. “Cully, I — I’m too busy. Nico did a grand job on the case and I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe…” He picked up his tray. “Maybe you _do_ need to stop mothering him, but I need to get back to work.” He left, and didn't realize he’d forgotten his food until he was back at his desk.

***

**Taking a sick day**

With only three days before he was due in Midsomer Mallow to begin shooting, Nico woke with broken glass in his throat and his perfectly serviceable features obscured by swollen eyes and a nose that could have doubled for a clown’s. He was nauseous, but couldn’t tell if it was flu or anxiety, and when he staggered downstairs for breakfast, he found he couldn’t even manage toast.

“Good lord, young man. Back to bed,” said Cully, who was still on afternoons and evenings at the mobile library. She claimed his untouched toast. “You look appalling.”

“I’m going to get sacked,” said Nico miserably, inflamed sinuses blurring his voice. After the stress of the investigation and all that had gone on with Gavin, his body had interpreted the brief interlude before shooting began as an opportunity to break down entirely. 

“No, you’re not,” said Cully. “You’re going to go back to bed and enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime chance to have me fuss over you.”

“Don’t want fuss,” said Nico. 

“Too bad,” said Cully. She tapped her fingers on the table, watching him expectantly. 

Nico, in no fit state for battle, conceded defeat and returned to bed, where Cully brought him a large cup of ginger tea, a packet of lozenges, and a decongestant that had him nodding off within the hour. 

 

All too soon, he remembered why he didn't like sleep-inducing medication. His dreams were fragmented and disturbing, and with the MacKillop case fresh in his mind, they were bloody too. There was no discernible plot, only recurring images: ghosts, a crushed skull, Gavin with a slide projector in his hands, Nico struggling to speak and finding himself mute, the sense that vital clues were everywhere but invisible to him. 

When he woke, disoriented, looking for his old flat and finding only the temporary haven of the Barnabys' spare bedroom, he swallowed painfully, then sat up and fumbled for a lozenge to soothe his throat. Though the pain in his head and sinuses had settled, he was sweat-damp and shaky. Hunger, or his dreams? He sighed. Both, most likely. 

A knock sounded, and Cully appeared in the doorway. “Heard you rustling around. How’re you feeling?”

“Better, actually.” His voice didn’t sound quite so bad as it had that morning, though perhaps that was only wishful thinking on his part. “Do I sound better? What time is it?”

“About 3:00.” She sat down at the foot of the bed. “And you sound like you _could_ get better, if you sit quietly, and rest your voice, and drink plenty of fluids for the next 36 hours.”

He sighed. “I’m nervous about this job, Cully.” 

“I know.” She patted his foot through the duvet. “Butterflies is part of the business.”

“I know.” He wished he could tell her about Gavin, ask her advice. He didn’t want to out Gavin, but neither did he want to muzzle himself on the sergeant’s account. He wanted to talk to his best friend. 

“Heya, look at me.” 

Nico looked up. 

“You got this job because they want you,” said Cully. “Everyone they had to choose from, they picked _you_. Don’t forget that. Is… Is something else bothering you? This case with Dad?”

Nico shook his head, denying on reflex

She frowned, mock stern. “Nicholas Bentley, remember who you’re talking to.” 

Nico swallowed hard, then winced, though it hurt a little less than it had before. “It’s a lot of things. This job, the case, this cold.” He bit his lip.

“And…” She tapped her fingers on the bed, as she had on the table. 

Perhaps if he told her half the truth, only his feelings and not Gavin’s secrets… “Cully, if I tell you, it has to be absolutely secret. I’m not playing around, not at all, okay?”

She straightened, instantly serious. “Of course. I promise.”

_Best to rip the plaster off_ , he thought. “I think I fancy Gav—er, Sergeant Troy. Er, Gavin.”

“ _Gavin_?” Cully was slack-jawed with amazement. She closed her mouth only when Nico patted his own chin to remind her, then said, “darling, that is a dead end if ever I saw one.”

Nico shook his head. “I don’t think it is. No, really, I don’t, and I’m…” _Scared_. “I want to try.”

Cully opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

Nico realized what she wanted to say; in a way, he was glad of it, because he’d wanted her honest opinion, but even so… “You don’t really think he’d hurt me? Come on now, Cully.”

“Not physically,” she said. “I wouldn’t hedge on something like that. I’d tell you straight. But on that note, he is. And even if he weren’t, he’s a nice enough boy, but you’ve heard him, haven’t you? It isn’t your job to hold his hand and walk him through his awakening. It’s not like he’d introduce you to his police mates, and I can tell you, you wouldn’t want to meet them anyway. We promised each other: no more child-minding in lieu of actual relationships."  


“Alright, alright,” said Nico, holding up his hand. “I surrender. Recall that I _am_ sick before you carry on and crush the rest of my dreams.” He felt ill, not only on account of his cold. In half a minute, Cully had briskly exposed every problem he didn’t want to consider. 

“I’m sorry,” said Cully, after a pause. “I reacted emotionally. Protective instinct. You know that I do trust your judgement, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Just not when it doesn’t align with yours.”

“You’d prefer I lied to you?”

“No, of course not, I just…” He sighed. “Okay, what would you do, if you were me?”

“Well, keep in mind I _am_ braver than you—”

Nico chucked a decorative cushion at her. 

“I’d figure out what I considered unacceptable, lying to me, or making me lie, or making homophobic jokes to fit in with the lads, and that’d be my line in the sand: cross it, and the whole thing’s a wash. And once I’d promised myself that, I’d go and talk to him. In a public setting.” She sighed. “If I really thought he was worth it.”

“You know, that’s actually good advice.”

Cully chucked the cushion back at him. “But you aren’t going to take it, are you?”

Nico slumped down in the bed and cast his arm over his eyes. “Cully, I’m _sick_. Have mercy.” Right though she might have been, he was inclined to take the emotional rollercoaster of uncertainty over the bitter finality of defeat. 

Cully picked at the duvet, looking away from him. “I’ve been wondering what’s been bothering you. Actually, I…” 

Nico’s stomach turned over, some long-buried instinct warning him of danger. “You what?”

“I thought it might be the case, the murders, and I figured you didn’t want me mothering you, so I, er, well, I talked to Gavin.”

“You _what_?”

“This morning, while you were sleeping. Only about the case, obviously. I asked him to talk to you about it, and I’m only mentioning it now because he was… rather resistant. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have talked to him, but now, after talking to you— I just don’t want to see you hurt, is all.”

“I know that, and I love you for it.” Nico sighed. What Cully _didn’t_ know was that Gavin’s reluctance likely stemmed from a desire to give Nico space after their kiss. It was all so foolishly complicated. Perhaps it was time to cut the knot. Once he was up and around again.

***

**No more running**

Gavin was late the next day, nursing a hangover self-induced at his kitchen table the night before. Fortunately, Barnaby’s conference was continuing for a second day, so at least he could pour a large cup of coffee and sit alone in a brown study, again attempting, with limited success, to make a dent in his paperwork.

Undisturbed quiet was not to be his, though, for as he had the day before, he had a lunchtime visitor: Nico Bentley himself. 

Gavin attempted to recall the acronym used for identifying the symptoms of stroke. 

“Can I sit down a minute?”

Gavin nodded. The office was largely empty, except for Warren and Anderson in the corner, which was, on the balance, worse than the office being full. _FAST_ , he thought. _That’s it_.

“Cully told me she came to see you yesterday, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry she put her foot in it. She came blundering in here all of her own accord.”

Gavin fidgeted with his pen. “She said she thought you were unhappy. Is that true? And you sound like you’ve got a cold?” He could have kicked himself for sounding so keen. 

Nico shrugged. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. Shooting starts the day after tomorrow, and the prep’s taking a lot out of me. The cold’s much better, though. I’ll be alright.”

“So it wasn’t the MacKillop case?” He forced himself to put down his pen. “Or me?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“That’s not what I asked, though.” 

“Well…” Nico blushed. “Look, I don’t want to upset you, or cause you any trouble, okay?”

“I never thought you did.”

“I just… miss you. But Gavin, I’m not trying it on, I swear. I’m not asking you for anything.”

Gavin’s heart was thudding in his chest. “You could ask.”

“What?”

“You could ask, Nico. I’d say yes.”

Nico shook his head. “Oh, Gavin, come on. You don’t even know what I’d ask for.” 

Blush crept up Gavin’s neck, its heat a tangible thing. He didn’t know anything; that was his problem. “But I want to know,” he said, forcing the words out. He did, too. “Look, do you play cricket?”

Nico looked flummoxed. “Er, yeah. Why?” 

“I’ve joined up with Midsomer Worthy and they’re still looking for players. You could come; it’s Saturday next and we could get a pint after? If you’re not busy, that is.”

Nico looked to his right and Gavin followed his gaze: Anderson and Warren were still there, though preoccupied with the cricket broadcast, both of them crouched over the radio. Nico pitched his voice low, just for the two of them. “Detective Sergeant Troy, are you asking me on a date?” He was not being coy, but had locked eyes with him. “If you are, you’d better mean it.” His gaze flicked across the room again. “I understand that you have to keep yourself safe, and that your friends...” 

More than he wanted his colleagues' regard, Gavin wanted to be Nico's friend. Forget symptoms; he was almost certainly having a stroke, but still he said, “Yeah, er, yes, I am.” Then, more firmly, “and I mean it.”

***

**Taking a chance**

When Saturday next rolled around, it was Nico’s first day off in ten and he was more grateful than he could put into words that his decision to play for Midsomer Worthy grounded in genuine skill, not dependent on a wing and a prayer. The practice itself was fun: good-natured sportsmanship in the ranks and all competitiveness focused, laser-like, on Fletcher’s Cross. He and Gavin were younger than the rest of the team, but even as the new man, he felt more welcome there than he had elsewhere in a long time. And he’d have been lying if he’d said it didn’t feed his pride to impress Gavin. After a month of real police-work and ten days of immersion in fictional crime, to feel grass underfoot and the sun on his face was restorative in a way he hadn’t known he badly needed. 

Afterwards, they had a drink with the team, just one, then drove back to Causton to park Gavin’s car at home before setting out on foot for supper. 

“Safety first,” said Gavin, self-deprecating, as though he expected Nico to tease him for avoiding drink driving. 

Nico wouldn’t, first of all, and second, he was glad to have Gavin to himself, although he didn’t want to frighten him off by saying so. “But of course,” he said, lightly.

 

They were both light, careful with each other and unwilling to disturb the easy, comfortable pleasure of the day. They ate heartily, and Nico didn’t worry about it; they laughed; Gavin told Nico about life at the Causton nick and Nico told Gavin about life on set in Midsomer Mallow; and when they’d done and the evening had passed, they found themselves back at Gavin’s, Gavin himself putting the kettle on, because they didn’t want to say goodnight. 

 

“Oh, you’ve got _The Hawk_ ,” said Nico, and put down his cup to reach for a newspaper across the table. “I missed it this week.”

Gavin blinked, then blushed. “Oh, yes, I, er—” When he realized that Nico had not been making fun, he said, “you read it too?”

“Have done for years. Was this what you were reading in the car? And you shoved it down the side?”

“Little did I know," said Gavin, laughing. "Well, I’ve got loads of back issues, if you ever want to take a look.”

Nico smiled. “I would, yeah. Thanks.” Then he saw the clock over Gavin’s shoulder. “God, it’s past midnight. I should get going.”

“You’re working tomorrow, of course." Gavin looked slapped. " Sorry, I —”

Nico’s words overlapped with his. “I mean, I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, and I—”

They both laughed nervously, and Nico could feel cracks forming in their fragile comfort. He desperately wanted to keep it from breaking. “It was really nice today, Gavin.” _Nice? Nice? Bentley, you idiot._

He took the words exactly as Nico would have if he’d been on the receiving end: like he understood that Nico was trying to escape gracefully. “It was, yeah,” he said, looking down. “I’ll get your coat.” 

Nico followed him into the hall, resisting the urge to put his hand on Gavin’s shoulder, not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew the man would startle. He waited until Gavin had turned back to face him, Nico’s coat in hand, then said, “I didn’t mean _just_ nice. I meant so nice I’d like to do it again.”

Gavin’s eyes widened.

Nico put his hand gently to Gavin’s cheek, and when Gavin did not shy away, leaned in to kiss him, a soft press of his lips, something quite tender. Nico’s coat fell to the floor. He wasn’t sure why he thought a homicide detective in infamous Midsomer county would have tender desires, but his instincts told him to handle Gavin Troy with care. Gavin responded to him, a bit awkwardly, but his body was still tense, a taut wire. “I think it is,” Nico said softly, “but I want to ask you: is this your first time with a man?” Stood so close to him, Nico could see the flicker of tension pass through his eyes, the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple. “It’s not a problem; I just want to know. It’ll be easier for us, if we talk to each other about it, about ourselves.”

“It’s a first for me, generally,” said Gavin. “With—” He had gone pale, except for two bright spots of colour high in his cheeks. Then, a whisper: “with anyone.” He’d bitten his lip and closed his eyes. “You’re the first person I ever kissed, Nico. I should I have said, I mean, if you couldn’t tell already, but I… I understand if you want to go.” He stood stiffly, prepared to watch a lover walk out on him and take it on the chin; prepared to endure his coming out all on his own.

He was so unlike the yob Nico had braced himself for after Barnaby’s warning. He knew he had only a moment to decide, to act: to protect himself, perhaps at the cost of something greater, or to take a chance on Gavin. What to do, what to do. He kissed Gavin’s forehead and said, “How’s this? You taught me how to solve a murder; I’ll teach you how to snog. Yeah?”

Gavin opened his eyes, looked up at him with wonder.

Nico kissed him again, gently still, telegraphing his movements. Slowly, he rucked up Gavin’s shirt, then set hands to his bare waist, heard and felt him gasp. 

“My bedroom’s a mess,” said Gavin. 

“I don’t mind,” said Nico. 

Mussed, flushed, untucked, Gavin took Nico’s hand and led him down the hallway, and Nico himself was flushed with happiness: Gavin’s bedroom _was_ untidy — pants on the floor, bed unmade, closet door open, _X-Files_ poster hung above the bed — but he had never led anyone here the way he was leading Nico. It was awkward, though, on the bed: a tight fit and a bit of fumbling, elbows bashed on the headboard, and nervous laughter from Gavin that threatened to turn hysterical. 

“It’s okay.” Nico brushed back Gavin’s fringe. “Take a breather, if you like.” They both flopped back on the bed, each half out of their shirts.

“When I was a kid,” said Gavin, “I thought it had to be getting closer, the day when I’d meet someone and figure all this out. Then all of a sudden, it just seemed to be getting further away instead, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“I was in uni,” said Nico. “It was okay. Not bad, just nothing to write home about.” The other boy had been nice enough — they’d had a lecture together and clicked — but Nico had known from the start it wasn’t going anywhere. He remembered the strange feeling of delight in the moment, even while knowing he wouldn’t mind if they never met again. He wondered how Gavin felt, if in the morning DS Troy would consider his evening of passion with a local actor an aberration; he was confident that Gavin would not hurt him on purpose, but his heart was far from safe. 

“Are you alright?” Gavin peered worriedly at him. 

“Oh, yes.” Nico was embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming while in bed with someone. “Er, are you?”

Gavin nodded. Gave that guileless smile.

“I should say, I don’t have any condoms,” said Nico. “Not that we have to do anything that would, er, require them, but it’s worth saying, and I can tell you I’m alright, but it’s okay to not take a man’s word for that.” He hoped Gavin wouldn’t think him condescending; he was trying to think of what he would have liked to hear, all those years ago. 

“Okay,” said Gavin, with a deep breath. “Okay.”

Nico reached out; Gavin’s shirt was partially unbuttoned and he finished the job, pushed the fabric aside, stroked his thumb over one exposed nipple. He got them out of their trousers, then—more fumbling, but laughter too, bright and happy this time—Gavin out of his pants. He was hard, and well responsive to Nico’s touch, shallow little breaths as Nico worked. “And, er, is that alright?”

“God, yes, Nico, I—” Gavin gasped; a flick of Nico’s wrist and he was shivering with pleasure. “I can’t believe—”

“It can just be like this,” said Nico. “Just touching, things that feel good. No pressure.”

“ _Some_ pressure,” said Gavin. “I mean, I’d rather not be shit at it.” That last was mumbled, as though it embarrassed him. 

Nico kissed him again, felt his tentative reply, not hesitant but shy. He’d stop the moment Gavin wanted to, of course, no matter what, but he dreaded the thought that shame might trip the man now, when he’d made himself so vulnerable. Nico’s other arm, round Gavin’s shoulders, was rapidly losing feeling, but he wasn’t bothered; it was marvellous to be squeezed into Gavin’s bed, to be kissing and touching him, to want someone this way and be wanted in return, to be trusted. Maybe pleasure had taken him too far out of his head; he was hard too, found himself pushing up against Gavin’s thigh, and for Gavin’s sake, he made himself more talkative than was his usual inclination. “I’m happy, here with you, see? Can’t you feel it?” He bit back, _Honey_. Too soon for endearments. 

“Nico,” said Gavin, and shivering, he came in Nico’s hand. Nico kissed him through it and when his trembling had settled, his breathing almost back to normal, he said, “oh my god.” Despite himself, Nico knew a moment of fear, that post-orgasm some primordial yob buried in Gavin’s psyche would reassert itself, but Gavin only said, “oh, your hand, and reached out to snag his abandoned shirt. He crumpled it to wipe them both clean, then unceremoniously dropped it off the side of the bed. 

Nico was enchanted. 

Gavin blushed. “Was that weird? I don’t care about my shirt; don’t worry about that.” With fresh confidence, he reached out to rest his hand on Nico’s hip. “You stopped moving.” He was careful in his touch, avoiding Nico’s erection, but still he stroked Nico’s hip, the curve of his buttock. 

“It wasn’t weird,” said Nico. “And I was concentrating on you, that’s all.” He shifted closer, then rolled his hips, again pushing against Gavin’s firm thigh. His arm tingled, coming back to life.

“Mm, yes. That’s it. Can I…” Gavin’s voice was almost a whisper, but still he spoke. “Can I kiss you again?”

Beyond words, Nico nodded, and in time, with Gavin’s mouth on his and Gavin’s hand on his hip, tugging him closer, he came with a lovely, lasting spasm of pleasure. 

Gavin put his poor shirt to work again, then lay back, eyes on the ceiling. 

Nico thought, _Please don’t ask me to leave. Please, please._

“Would you… usually stay?”

There was no way to tell what Gavin wanted. Nico returned his serve. “Would you like me to stay?”

He nodded, then cleared his throat, still looking away. “Yes.”

Perhaps he was afraid to be left alone. “Good, ‘cos I’d like to,” said Nico, who was already drowsy. "I don't have to be back in Midsomer Mallow until noon."  


Gavin tugged the duvet up over them. “Sorry there’s not much room. Just give me a kick if I’m too close, yeah?”

Nico smiled. “Close is fine.”

Gavin coughed. "Given the circumstances at the time, I don't want to sound macabre" he said, "but there's something I wanted to tell you."

Nico opened one eye. "Oh?" He watched Gavin swallow, realized he was nervous, and put one hand on Gavin's chest, gambling that it would soothe him. 

It did.

"I was in the audience at _Amadeus_."

"I remember."

"And putting aside the fact that a man was murdered..."

Nico nodded.

"I thought you were amazing. And I wanted to tell you."

Nico closed his eyes against a swell of emotion. "Thank you," he said, quietly. 

***

**Taking time for breakfast **

In the morning, Gavin told Nico about Gerald Hadleigh. He hadn’t meant to, only it had bubbled up inside him while he was frying eggs for breakfast, and by the time he realized murder wasn’t, perhaps, breakfast conversation, much less morning-after conversation, he was already in too deep. “I just thought, well… He felt he couldn’t report his own car stolen, since he’d have had to call from a gay club in Causton, and how is that right? Er, toast?”

“Yeah, please,” said Nico, holding out his plate. 

Gavin flipped two slices out of the toaster, transferred them, and considered what Cully had said about Nico’s unhappiness. He'd never even talked to Barnaby about the Hadleigh case, but if it might help Nico, maybe it was time to open up. He’d slept better than he’d expected, even sharing his small bed. Unlike Hadleigh, he had not been alone. “That one, that case, it followed me around. All around him was selfishness, adultery, relationships gone bad… But Hadleigh just wanted to mind his own business.”

“But… He was a killer himself, wasn’t he?”

“Once in self-defence, once in revenge. Crimes weren’t connected, though. It’s a very tangled web we weave in Midsomer.” Gavin served up the eggs, then joined Nico at the table. “With cases like his, I imagine what I might have done. If I told my secrets to someone I trusted, and he’d turned them into a bestseller under his own name. I suppose I hated that case because I could see myself as the victim or as the killer, depending on the day.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, though,” said Nico. “Being gay, I mean. We’ve as much right to be happy as anyone, and we can be. We’re not going to end up like that, or at least not because we’re inherently worse than anyone else, you know what I mean?” 

Something deep within Gavin settled for the first time. “I thought I couldn’t stand anyone knowing about me, knowing me.” He thought about the things he used to say, to do; he knew he was still the same man, but he knew too that he could be better.  


Nico smiled. “But then you did. Reminds me of what you said: that some secrets, people can’t keep. Too painful.” After a few bites in silence, he added, “do you dream about them, your cases?”

“Sometimes. Has that MacKillop case followed you?”

“I didn’t think so.” He mopped up yolk with his toast. “Then, on set, there was a scene with a slide projector. It was so weird — I just… panicked. Flop sweat, except it wasn’t stage fright, I was thinking about what it’d be to, to…” 

_To kill someone with it._

Gavin let the words go unsaid. He wanted to take Nico’s hand, but didn’t want to offend him. He offered another piece of toast instead, then said the same thing he’d said to Cully. “Only murderers aren’t bothered by murder. You know that, right? And even then…”

Nico shrugged, but took the toast.

“I mean it, not just to make you feel better. If you weren’t bothered, I’d be.”

“I just got thinking,” said Nico, “about how easy it might be to cross that line. I bet half your cases never thought they’d end up doing what they did.”

“I can assure you on my honour as a policeman that you’re not going to kill anyone.”

“I can assure you, I don’t want to," said Nico, laughing.

To make him laugh was all Gavin had wanted. In all his fearful, half-formed thoughts, he had never imagined a morning like this: a casual, honest breakfast with a lover. “Thanks for giving me a chance,” he said, and added, before he lost his nerve, "and, well, I know Cully's your friend. If you want to tell her, well, I wouldn't kick up a fuss, is all. But maybe not... the private stuff, you know." _The sex stuff_ , he meant. He wanted to see Nico again, but didn’t know how to ask. Was afraid to ask, even after all that passed between them.  


Nico nodded his agreement. "Private stuff's just for us. So, cricket next week? And maybe… dinner?”

Gavin nodded, relieved, and Nico smiled his lovely smile, and they did the washing up together. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story references events and quotes some dialogue from episodes "The Killings at Badger's Drift" (1.0), "Written in Blood" (1.1), "Death of a Hollow Man" (1.2), "Dead Man's Eleven" (2.3), "Beyond the Grave" (3.4), and "Market for Murder" (5.1).


End file.
